


But I've Moved Further Than I Thought I Would

by mosaicofhearts



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dumb boys being dumb boys, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Minor Background Relationships, Multi, Pining, Spin the Bottle, Teenage Losers Club (IT), but everything is miLd, i just really love the losers club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaicofhearts/pseuds/mosaicofhearts
Summary: “I’ve got an idea.” Richie pipes up from his position next to Eddie on the hammock.Their legs are pressed together, even though Eddie’s thigh barely seems to reach Richie’s knee, and the warmth should be too much, considering how fucking hot it is, but it feels just right instead.(He valiantly tries not to dwell on that thought).“Beep beep, Richie.” Stan barely raises his head from where he’s been flicking through the pages of some bird watching book, open on his lap, though even he seems tired with it by now.------Eddie does a lot of pining in a short amount of time.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 17
Kudos: 226





	But I've Moved Further Than I Thought I Would

**Author's Note:**

> hello it me, and my first foray into the IT fandom. um, idk. i love the losers club! and reddie! and also like some other ships but, yes. there's no real timeline for this, but the stuff with It has happened, and they're probably fifteen/sixteen here?
> 
> i want to do a ton of other fics but also don't bank on it because i'm a terribly flaky bitch who dips in and out of fandoms like nobody's bUSINESS. oops. (please validate me anyway lol).
> 
> comments are always so appreciated!!

Richie Tozier is a pain in Eddie Kaspbrak’s ass.

That’s nothing new, obviously. Richie’s been getting on every single one of Eddie’s last nerves ever since they first met, years ago when it was just the four of them – Eddie, Richie, Bill and Stan – before anyone else ever joined their ragtag group of misfits; when the Losers Club was nothing more than a faint whisper of an idea that would not be realised for quite some time.

But Richie’s been even more of a pain in Eddie’s ass than usual for the past – oh, four months or so, now. Since Eddie had an epiphany (Ben’s words, not his) and realised that his need for having Richie’s attention on him, in all his coke-bottle glasses glory, was less platonic and more… something else. He hasn’t quite figured out what else yet, although really, he’s just lying to himself and everyone else, because he knows _exactly_ what that ‘else’ is.

He’s just not ready to admit it yet. If ever.

Instead, he spends his time craning his head up to meet Richie’s eyes every now and again (and really, it’s _not fair_ that the other boy had such a growth spurt that he’s now towering over them all, especially over Eddie, and it does something to him that leaves his stomach fluttering in a not entirely uncomfortable way), and purposely shoving himself into the space beside him, even when that space is barely big enough for even an Eddie-sized person, and keeping his tongue biting and scathing if only to get a reaction out of the other and –

He’s fucked, is what he is. Entirely, undeniably, irrevocably _fucked_.

\-------------------------------------------

It’s the summer before they embark on their senior year, and the temperature in Derry is hotter than it has any right to be. Ice cubes melting in fizzy lemonade before it has a chance to cool the liquid down; sweat soaked skin that no amount of deodorant can halt; the blaze of sun that seems intent on piercing through the layers of lotion Eddie’s mom insists he puts on every morning (though at least this time he can’t deny she’s right). Even the insects seem overly affected by the heat, their incessant buzzing somehow lazier than usual.

The clubhouse has been their refuge for years now, even though they’re probably too old for sneaking around like this; even though it’s a tighter squeeze than they ever used to be. It’s useful, still. Provides a hideout from the bullies who still roam around town, and for days like this when they need to be indoors, away from the glaring heat, but not at home, when all they really want to do is be with each other.

Which – Eddie doesn’t really like to think about. Because the thought of this being their last year – the thought of them all moving on, _away from Derry_ , in just about a years’ time… it leaves him itching for an inhaler that he hasn’t used in years, ever since he discovered that he doesn’t even have asthma, never fucking had asthma, and he hates that it’s still something of a crutch for him. That when he starts feeling uncomfortable with the way things are going, he still wants to rely on it.

That’s the point of a placebo, though, right? It makes you feel better even if it’s all a lie.

“I’ve got an idea.” Richie pipes up from his position next to Eddie on the hammock.

Their legs are pressed together, even though Eddie’s thigh barely seems to reach Richie’s knee, and the warmth should be too much, considering how fucking _hot_ it is, but it feels just right instead.

(He valiantly tries not to dwell on that thought).

“Beep beep, Richie.” Stan barely raises his head from where he’s been flicking through the pages of some bird watching book, open on his lap, though even he seems tired with it by now.

His words have Richie hooting, though, scrambling to get into a more upright position in the hammock (which is definitely not quite steady enough to hold two of them now they’re all seventeen and half of them are lanky as fuck), blinking rapidly down at Stan.

“What the fuck, Staniel!? I didn’t even tell you what it was –”

Stan shakes his head, “Exactly, and I’m still vetoing it.”

Bev snorts from where she’s spread-eagled on the floor, fanning herself with some sort of leaflet that’s been hanging around the clubhouse for years. Eddie half wants to reach out and take it from her, complain about the germs and bacteria that will have been spread along it after all this time, but he refrains. He’s been doing better with all this.

“You can’t do that. Someone back me up.” Richie’s looking around at them all with an almost frantic level of determination in his eyes, finally settling on Eddie.

“Eds. Back me up.”

“No.” He’s smug with it, resisting the urge to smirk just slightly; he knows, after so many years of doing exactly this, how to rile the other boy up. And maybe in the beginning it was just that – all about their snark and back and forth banter, always getting progressively worse until one of the others (usually Bill or Mike) had to step in between them.

Now, though, Eddie mostly does it because it’s a sure-fire way of keeping Richie’s attention firmly where it needs to be; on him.

“And don’t call me that.”

“You’re breaking my heart here, Spaghetti,” Richie whines with it, leaning forward and down into the hammock to try and pinch at Eddie’s cheeks, hands being firmly batted away by the smaller male, who squawks indignantly, even though he expects it, even though this is sort of a ritual for them. “You won’t even hear me out?”

“Wh-What is it, Rich? What’s your b-b-big idea?” Bill’s had enough, it seems, sighing as though he doesn’t really want to know, but feels obliged to ask anyway.

Eddie feels a little bad for him, but then remembers that he practically appointed _himself_ as leader of this little group of idiots, and his sympathies evaporate. Bill only has himself to blame for everything that’s ensued over the past few years.

Perhaps not everything. Nobody’s to blame for It.

The thought alone is enough to send a shiver of fear running along his spine, apparently obvious enough to have Richie shooting him an expression that’s half concern and half puzzlement, before the taller male’s head is turning right around to face Bill. He looks entirely too pleased with himself – as though he’s glad that someone has finally asked him, but they’re all going to pay for it anyway. That tends to be the way things go, when it comes to Richie and his plans.

“Let’s play spin the bottle.”

Bev’s rolling her eyes, unmoved from her position. “What are we, Rich? Twelve years old again?”

Except they weren’t playing spin the bottle at twelve years old, were they? They were doing things no kid should have to do, living a summer that should have been filled with stupid games and dumb adventures, that was instead filled with an all too real hell.

But maybe Eddie’s the only one thinking that. _Probably_ Eddie’s the only one thinking that, because he can’t seem to let things go, ever.

He lets himself sink back down into the hammock, confident in the knowledge that the rest of them won’t give into Richie’s dumb idea, letting himself focus on the different sounds and tones of their voices as their words float over to him, vision obscured by Richie’s body tilting out.

“We don’t even have a bottle.” Stan; sounding tired, weary, as though they’ve been through this all before (they have; many a time).

“Isn’t this something you play at, like, parties? With alcohol involved.” That’s Ben, sounding uncertain; though maybe giving more thought to this whole thing than Eddie would have strictly expected, which leaves him feeling less confident that it’s going to be shot down.

Richie seems to consider this. “Well. We can _get_ alcohol.”

“What, have you suddenly got a fake ID?” Eddie can’t help but snort, quirking a sardonic eyebrow at him.

“No, but I’m pretty sure I could convince your mom to get us some, she’d do just about anything for me and my monster di-“

“Shut the fuck up, Tozier!” Eddie reaches one socked foot out to kick him in the rib, scowling, as though this isn’t the billionth joke that Richie has made in respect of ole Mrs Kaspbrak; he still reacts like he did the first time, getting all fired up and ready to bite.

“Boys.” Bev smiles prettily at them, tone commanding enough to ensure silence falls, before she’s shrugging, “I’ve got an empty coke bottle in my bag.”

And that’s that, then. Eddie resists the urge to groan; catches Stan’s eye as he hauls himself up, feels more than sees the faint sense of camaraderie that always seems to buzz between them when it comes to situations like this. At least he’s not the only one who hears words like _spin the bottle_ and feels nothing short of dread sinking into the pit of his stomach.

Because Bev’s in. And if Bev’s in, Bill and Ben are in, and if they’re in, then Mike’s in – Mike’s easy-going enough that he’ll do whatever the majority of the group wanna do, anyway – and it’s not like Eddie and Stan can just back out if the rest of them are already committed. They aren’t _pussies_ , even if playing spin the bottle in a group that only consists of one girl should be weird enough as it is. But it’s them. There’s no shortage of _weird_ to be found in their group, and there are plenty of people who would attest to it.

It’s not like Eddie’s never kissed anyone before. They all have, now, he’s sure of it. They’re not kids anymore (sort of). All of them have been dragged along to various high school parties over the years by both Bev and Richie, all of them having the opportunity to drink and dance and maybe flirt just a little. Eddie was never keen on the parties at first, but even he has to admit that not all of them have been god damn awful; at least not when he stops thinking about the cleanliness of whoever’s home they’re in, and when he started taking his own plastic cups so he didn’t have to drink out of whatever was there and stress about when their glasses were last washed.

But the minimal flirting and kissing he has done has never gone that well. He knows _why_ ; he’s not an idiot. It’s because kissing girls never feels like what he thinks it should, and the few boys he’s kissed haven’t been quite right either – to short, with too small hands, with hair too neat and tidy, without the stupid, thick rimmed glasses that he wants to feel pressing against his face, and –

He’s in _too deep_ to really consider kissing anyone else and enjoying it, is the thing, and he hates it. Hates that he wants something that he can never have, as though he hasn’t lived enough punishment in his life; as though he had to work against himself now, too, like the world hasn’t done that for him plenty already.

“Hel _lo_ , earth to E-Eddie – where’d you g-g-go?” Bill’s hand is on his knee, suddenly, jolting him from his thoughts with an intensity that has the hammock shaking – a quick glance around tells him that the others haven’t noticed, congregating in a sort of circle in the middle of the floor.

“What – nothing. I mean, nowhere.” His cheeks heat, and he swallows around a thick throat, offering the other up a smile.

“W-Well, come on. They’re g-getting started.” Bill’s smile is not unkind, but it does little to stifle Eddie’s sudden nerves.

At least his nerves are something that he and they are used to. His anxiety doesn’t give way to anything new or honest, not when they’ve been dealing with it for years, and they expect it of him. They aren’t searching for answers when he does this – get too up in his own head and freaks out, even if he’s been getting better at it.

Still, he seats himself primly at the edge of the hammock, because he refuses to get down onto the floor with them, leg just barely brushing against Richie, who’s situated on the ground but still close enough to the hammock that he hasn’t gone too far. It makes Eddie smile when it shouldn’t.

“Who goes first?” Ben eyes the circle.

Bev’s the one who reaches forward, coke bottle placed firmly in the centre of them, proudly declaring that, “I will”, and nobody is surprised that she’s still braver than half of them, especially when it comes to stuff like this. This sort of thing should be dumb and stupid, compared to what they’ve _actually_ faced before, but somehow, it’s just as scary. For Eddie, at least.

It feels as though the entire circle watches with bated breath as she flicks her wrist delicately, the bottle spinning and spinning and spinning; before it comes to a rest, firmly pointed in Richie’s direction. It’s just typical, really, and Eddie knows better than to feel jealous about it, but he still does, sort of. His stomach twists uncomfortably with the weight of it, even as his gaze is intent on staying put, fastened firmly on the two people who are now encroaching on the centre of the group, unabashed and confident with it.

If Eddie had any sense of self-preservation, maybe he’d have the good sense to look away.

He watches, instead, as Bev and Richie press their lips together – it’s a short, chaste, slip of a thing, but it’s enough to leave him _wanting_ , wishing not for the first time that he would find himself in Bev’s place. They come apart giggling, Bev shoving gently at Richie’s front, and Richie looking self-satisfied and smug.

“You can go home tonight and write about that one in your diary.” He grins, faux lecherous as ever, even as Bev snorts out a sound that’s half-amused and half-disbelieving.

“You _wish_ , Tozier. That wasn’t anything to write home about, trust me.”

Eddie can’t help but join in with the laughter of the rest of them, taking in the way Richie’s mouth drops open in a staged sense of shock, looking like he’s already revving up to reel one off at her, but Bill seems to sense it at the same time. He’s good like that. Somehow knows when to step up and put a stop to things before they get out of hand, and the thing with Richie is that they _always_ get out of hand.

“Al-Al-Alright, I’m next.”

The bottle spin, rather weakly, and lands almost instantaneously in Stan’s direction, causing him to sit upright, suddenly, as though the muscles in his body have tensed.

Eddie gets it, he thinks. Allows himself a sympathetic glance in the fair-headed boys’ direction, but Stan is resolutely not looking at him; not looking at anyone, his eyes glued firmly to the bottle instead, and it’s – he _gets it_. Maybe more than Stan realises, because Eddie’s not sure Stan knows that anyone else has twigged onto his less than platonic feelings for their mighty leader – but if anyone was going to notice, it’d be Eddie, right? Because Eddie’s been rowing this boat not so steadily down the stream alone for as long as he can remember, and maybe it’d be nice to have someone to share it with – all the angst and pining that, frankly, makes his days miserable.

Misery loves company.

He decides to step in. “You don’t have to.”

There’s a shout of outrage (Richie) and an uncertain “sure they do” from Bev, but that’s to be expected, enough so that Eddie barely bats an eyelid. As far as he’s concerned, it’ll be only too easy to get Ben and Mike on his side, because they usually just want everyone to be _happy_ and _peaceable_ and if that means Stan doesn’t have to kiss Bill, then so be it.

“The rules are the rules, Eddie Spaghetti. Or do I need to remind you?” Richie half leans into the circle, something akin to hunger in his eyes.

Eddie hates it, unequivocally.

“It’s a game. A stupid game. Nobody enforces the rules.” He scoffs, pointedly looking at Bill so that he doesn’t have to look in those – _fuck_ , those eyes, that he always feels like he could drown it, and he _hates_ Richie Tozier with a passion. Especially right now.

“I-I don’t mind.” Bill shrugs, looking between the two of them, his calm tone at odds with the colour rising on his cheeks. “It’s j-j-just a kiss.”

And he doesn’t know – of course he doesn’t know – that those words probably hurt Stan so much, but Eddie does, because he knows how he would feel if it were he and Richie in this situation, if Richie were to say a kiss between them was just a kiss, but –

Stan nods. “Sure.”

Maybe just a kiss is better than no kiss at all, Eddie thinks bitterly.

It’s easier to watch Stan and Bill kiss, for obvious reasons, but also for the not so obvious reasons that involve the gentle way that Bill shuffles across the circle; the reassurance in his eyes as he reaches Stan, as though he’s checking that sure really means sure.

The kiss is different to the quick, joking thing that seemed to pass between Bev and Richie – Bill’s always so certain and Stan’s always so careful, and somehow, they mesh well together. A soft moment between soft friends that feels private almost, even if it’s still chaste – still nothing more than a pressing of lips, with barely a hint of a linger on each side.

Eddie wonders, idly, how often Stan will think about this. Constantly, probably.

“That was really nice, guys.” And if it were Richie speaking, it would have sounded sarcastic even if he didn’t mean it that way, but it’s Mike; so it sounds honest, and it doesn’t sully the mood at all.

If Stan and Bill’s cheeks are both pink as roses when they separate, nobody points it out.

“Eddie.” Ben nudges him, nodding towards the bottle. “Your turn?”

It’d be funny, how quickly they manage to settle into this game, as though it’s not a weird way to pass the time between friends – but the knowledge that he’s next has a tremor of nerves shooting down his back, like electricity that has him jolting.

He wants to say no, but he bites his lip on that before it can get out. He can’t say no, because that would make him weak, and Richie would tease him for weeks, and it would open up a can of worms because everyone would want to know _why_. And they all know he’s at least kissed someone before, even if he can barely remember this little forgettable slide of lips that was more uncomfortable than pleasant, and even if he spent the entire time wishing it was someone else on the other side of it. He no longer has the _never been kissed_ trump card up his sleeve to play, and his friends are pushier and more inquisitive than they’d ever willingly admit.

So. It can’t be a no.

Slender fingers flex as they reach forward for the bottle, a slight tremor barely visible to anyone but him in his hands, though he knows it’s there better than anyone. Eddie grasps the bottle, and he spins.

It seems to move forever, turning and turning and turning, as though time itself has slowed for this very moment, until –

Relief floods him. Or is it disappointment? He doesn’t really want to know, doesn’t dwell on it. Feels his cheeks heat with a sudden rush of blood all the same, as he eyes Mike from across the circle. A swoop of embarrassment tugs at his stomach; what if Mike doesn’t want to kiss him? What if none of them want to kiss him? What if everyone was hoping that they _wouldn’t_ land on him and he wouldn’t land on them –

But it’s Mike. And Mike is a gentleman if nothing else. Kissing him is short and sweet and pleasant, and it gets Eddie’s heart racing in a manner that he can at least put entirely down to his own churning anxiety, and not anything else.

It’s nice. He’s stuck between wishing that it had been someone else and thanking his lucky stars that it wasn’t.

\-----------------------------------

The rest of the game – of the afternoon – goes past in a blur of teasing and kisses, though the latter fades away when everyone begins to lose interest quickly after a round or two of spinning the bottle. Afternoon becomes early night, cornflower blue bleeding into something darker and vaguely more threatening. After everything – after the summer of terror that once befell them – even the most obscure of things can seem frightening. That’s what Eddie’s learned over the years. He’s also learned, though, that anything can be tackled with friends like these. That standing under a night sky doesn’t look so bleak when he’s stood there with the rest of the Lucky Seven around him; when having them there helps him to slow his beating heart and ease his mess of a mind until he’s not focusing on the shadows and the unknown, but instead of the stars against a velvet backdrop, and the gentle breeze of a summers night.

He hates saying goodbye, even when it’s only until the morning. He wonders if Richie knows this, or if he just feels it too, because it’s Richie who tags along with Eddie, proclaiming that he’s the smallest, the youngest, the one who needs his so-called protection the most. Eddie glares and frowns and pretends that it doesn’t spark a swell of warmth in the cavity of his chest; to let himself believe that he’s something Richie wants to look out for, even if it’s just a joke on a tongue that lets them slip so often.

“We both know if Bowers comes around here causing trouble, you’ll be the first to run.” He scoffs at Eddie, tone reminding.

Truth is, they’d both run, and they’d be sensible for doing so, too. Eddie’s not a fighter. He’s a runner. Unless he can’t run anymore – like with It, when it came obvious that running and hiding wasn’t going to make any of that go away.

Bowers and his gang, though? Running is always the better option.

“No, I won’t… I mean, I’ll at least tell him to fuck his mom before I do.” Richie grins.

“Alright. Great. We’ll see how that works out for us.” It’s always like this. Back and forth between the two of them; Richie coming up with dumb ideas and things that will never happen (or might, if Eddie’s not so lucky), and Eddie refuting him – telling him why they’re dumb, telling him they’re never going to happen.

They think he’s so sensible, is the thing. As though he hasn’t got crazy thoughts and ideas running around his head, as though he’s not plagued with dreams of running away and telling his mom to fuck off, finally, and spilling his truth for everyone to hear – for _Richie_ to hear… but he’s sensible enough to know not to let any of that become a reality.

They walk mostly in silence, which is odd enough, without the constant chatter of a boy who usually can’t keep his damn mouth shut, but it’s _nice_. The whole evening has been nice, and maybe nice isn’t what most people would want, but after everything, nice seems kind of _perfect_ to Eddie.

They’re almost home when Richie reaches out a hand to tug at his shirt, halting him. He wants to bitch at him for pulling the material, even though he hasn’t really, but the moment Eddie looks at his face something stops the words from leaving his mouth. He’s seen Richie through a lot of things – a lot of emotions. But he’s never seen this; an expression as though he’s struggling to find the words to say, as though he wants to say something but needs to build up to it.

It scares him.

Richie is easy confidence and smug crassness, never lost for words, and never second-guessing himself. Well – never wanting to _show_ that he’s second-guessing himself, anyway. He covers it with his humour and jokes and banter and Eddie knows him enough to known that, because he fucking _knows him_ , damn it, and it’s still not enough to figure out what’s happening right now.

“The game,” Richie says lamely. It’s as though he’s starting with the middle of a sentence, and not the beginning of it, leaving Eddie struggling to catch up from the get-go. “I thought – I wanted to play, but… it was dumb.”

Eddie blinks at him, before scowling; rolling his eyes. “Great self-awareness, dickhead. All your ideas are dumb.”

“Yeah.” Richie chuckles, scuffing his shoe against the ground and –

It’s _weird_. Eddie hates this. He wants to swallow up the sudden strangeness between them and let things get back to normal – wants Richie to stop looking at him as though he thinks he’s going to – going to _break_ or something. Doesn’t want to do whatever this is right now. Or ever, actually. Preferably not ever.

“I thought maybe I’d get to kiss you.”

It’s not what he expects to hear, and it sets a coldness like ice running through his veins, own expression freezing into something that’s half horror and half hope.

Richie, for all his usual bravado, looks as though he wasn’t expecting to _say_ it, either – like he wants the ground to open and take him down. Like he’s on the verge of opening his mouth and saying something dumb or gross or anything that will ruin this, and Eddie –

He can’t. He can’t let that happen.

He’s not one for being brave, but maybe this time…

Maybe this time.

“You still can.” His voice sounds so soft, so distant, as though it hasn’t come from him at all, but he clears his throat and tries again; wills himself to look Richie in the eye when he does it, but he can’t. The pull to look at the ground is too strong to deny. “I mean… we don’t need a game. If you want to.”

And God, he’s been faced with a nose-less leper and a clown with rows and rows of teeth, but nothing could have prepared him for a moment like this. Maybe the ground can swallow them both, and they can leave this earth pretending this has never happened, because it feels like the silence that lingers stretches on for an eternity.

(In reality, he knows that it’s probably fifteen seconds at most, but time behaves strangely at the most inopportune of moments).

“Yeah?” _Richie_ sounds choked.

That’s what finally pulls Eddie’s eyes up, and he sees – he sees Richie, looking at him as though he’s seeing him for the first time. He sees Richie’s eyes, lit up from within by something that he cannot put a name to but feels in his own fucking _chest_ , and he sees Richie’s face getting closer, and closer, and –

Kissing Richie isn’t like kissing Mike. Not that Eddie had ever thought he’d have to compare the two, and not that he would have thought they’d be the same if he _had_.

Richie’s lips are just barely chapped, even though Eddie bitches at him five times a day _at least_ to put some fucking chapstick on, but oh so soft, and they somehow get the angle right first time. He’s not much for poetry, but the way his lips slot so effortlessly into place alongside the taller boys makes something inside Eddie sing; as though they were nothing but a jigsaw puzzle, trying to find the right way for them to become whole and _this_ is it.

A slide of tongue has him half gasping on an exhale, releasing something breathy from his throat that he hadn’t realised he’d been containing. Richie’s hands – big, warm – find their way to his waist, pulling him impossibly closer until all Eddie can feel is Richie pressed against him, stable in a way that he had never thought that Richie could be.

It’s over almost as soon as it’s begun, and he missed the feeling immediately; tongue darting out to chase the ghost of the pressure across his mouth, and maybe he’d feel embarrassed about that, is Richie’s chest wasn’t heaving as though he’d just run a marathon.

Eddie doesn’t know what to say, or do; so he says the first thing that pops into his suddenly brainless head.

“Jesus _fuck_ , I’m so glad that didn’t happen in front of the rest of them.”

And Richie laughs – loud and long, as though Eddie’s the funniest person in the world, and for the first time, Eddie thinks things could be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> i have about 7 tumblr accounts and don't really actively use any of them anymore, but, um. be my friend? cry about the losers club with me? stabilise me in this fandom so i stay and write more? if u want *pleading emoji*


End file.
